


The House in the Salvage Yard

by angstkingsfanfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bobby Singer's House, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Leviathans, Post-Leviathans (Supernatural), Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Older Brothers, Protective Sam Winchester, Sad, Sad Ending, Sad and Happy, Singer Salvage Yard (Supernatural), Uncle Bobby Singer, Worried Bobby Singer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26796298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstkingsfanfic/pseuds/angstkingsfanfic
Summary: Prompt #114: Aromatherapy. Describe a place by its smell, scent, odor, or stench.In which you mourn the loss of the singer household.
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester & You
Kudos: 4





	The House in the Salvage Yard

This place used to smell like what I consider to be home. The scent of cheap food and even cheaper bourbon would be so strong that it would nearly knock you off your feet. I would make my way passed the people indulging in the cheap food and head for the kitchen. It smelled like rotting wood and old whiskey. I’d empty my many grocery bags onto the counter, the scent of fresh apples and cinnamon wafting up into the air. The whole house would begin to smell like this. It was only a matter of time before the boys found their way from the sofa into the kitchen. Soft smiles equivalent to the smell of brown sugar lit up their faces. They’d move to drink their dirt bourbon at the kitchen table and talked to me while I worked. Once the pie was out of the oven, the smell became even more potent, flooding all of our senses until none of us could smell anything else.

That same kitchen was nothing but ash now. I sat in the dirt driveway, drawing scribbles into the grimy, dusty surface. I smelled nothing, but the cinders that circled through the air and gasoline. It’s honestly surprising that none of the cars in this old junkyard caught fire in the process of the house burning. I got up, dusting off the back of my pants, and grabbed my machete from the hood of the truck next to me. The smell of blood wafted into my nose. I grimaced, my nose shrinking up small. I looked to the head on the ground next to me.  _ At least he can’t hurt anyone else _ .


End file.
